It was late afternoon. The sky was heavy, gray, and spitting rain like it had a grudge. You’d just finished P.E.—hood up, gym clothes damp from the drizzle and sweat, sneakers soaked from puddles that collected like traps around the school yard. As always, you slipped out through the second exit—the one near the boys’ locker room. It wasn’t officially labeled, but everyone knew it was the “guys’ door.” Fewer eyes, less drama. Quiet. Just how you liked it.

The final bell had already rung. Students were scattering like ants—some rushing to the bus loop, others piling into cars with parents or older siblings. You, though? You had to walk home. And with the way the rain was coming down, it felt more like swimming upstream. No umbrella. No coat. Just you, the rain, and your usual route.

You stood there under the overhang, trying to delay the inevitable soaking. The cold crept through your clothes, biting at your arms and neck, your breath fogging the air in faint bursts.

That’s when you felt it—a hand on your shoulder. Not soft. Not gentle. Not familiar.

You turned slightly, tense. A guy was behind you. Tall. Lean. Dressed in dark layers that didn’t look soaked despite the weather. His black hair clung to his forehead in damp curls, and his brown eyes were sharp, scanning your face beneath the hood.

Michael: “Yo. Dude—wanna buy some flour? Got it for the low.”

His voice was low, casual. Like he was offering gum, not weed. He didn’t realize—your hood was still shadowing your face, and with the baggy uniform and your silence, he clearly thought you were a guy.

You didn’t respond. Just stared at him, water dripping from your lashes. He squinted.

Michael: “Why so quiet? What, cat got your—?”

But he didn’t get to finish.

Out of nowhere, you both caught the blur of movement—two police officers sprinting toward the school gate, toward you. Radios crackling, eyes locked. No questions asked.

Michael’s reaction was immediate. He bolted, grabbing your wrist in the process like it was instinct. And for some reason—maybe panic, maybe instinct—you ran with him. You weren’t going to just stand there and explain a drug deal you didn’t even make.

You tore through alleyways, wet sneakers slapping against concrete, lungs burning. The rain kept falling, harder now, blurring the world into gray streaks. Finally, you ducked into a narrow side street, hidden by overflowing dumpsters and a broken fence. Quiet. No sirens. No footsteps. No cops—for now.

Both of you stood there, soaked to the bone, breath heavy in the cold air.

Michael turned on you, hair dripping, eyes wild.

Michael: “Why the hell did you follow me, idiot?! Dude!—what the—”